


local, free-range, fresh caught

by altilis



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Food, Gen, Portland Oregon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5092871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altilis/pseuds/altilis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Portland is where murder-husbands go to retire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	local, free-range, fresh caught

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kierlani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kierlani/gifts).



The first time _Portland Monthly_ approaches them for a picture spread, they politely decline. "We're very private people," Will tells the journalist with canary-yellow hair and gages in her ears. "That's why we moved to the Pacific Northwest."

\--

It takes them months to work across the country. They hop from one little business to another, from Virginia to Missouri to Montana, baling hay and sweeping floors, sleeping in little studio apartments with water spots on the ceiling and meth brewing next door.

Will doesn't mind nearly as much as he thinks he should. Some nights when he closes his eyes he sees a cabin in the woods, Molly and Walter on the porch surrounded by all of his dogs. Other nights he closes his eyes and sees Florence, a low bench stretched out in front of a large painting. A sketchbook lingering at the corner of his vision.

Hannibal. Hannibal doesn't say anything about any of the places they sleep, merely takes a look around, a look out the window, and makes due with thin flannel sheets and one weak microwave. Yet sometimes Will looks in the mirror (or a glassy storefront) and catches Hannibal staring at him with a hollow-eyed hunger, like when they're reduced to a meal of day-old bread and grocery store roast chicken.

“Every religion has some element of fasting, to tune one’s attention towards the pleasures and flavors of life,” Hannibal says sometimes, perhaps more for himself, Will thinks. “It is not necessarily something to suffer.”

But they both look forward to the Northwest, to a sea of pine trees and quiet individualism to hide themselves in.

\--

After a month of cooking for investors, of looking _normal_ and _professional_ , they get their little restaurant plot on the east side of Portland on a street that looks just dirty enough to be trendy. With rich wood floors, monocolor furniture with smooth, clean lines, and a kitchen of stainless steel appliances and All Clad cookware, Will feels like he's back in Hannibal's home again.

"How do you like it, Will?" Hannibal asks him as the tour stops in the kitchen after a peak into the meat freezer and the pantry. He's watching Will so intently from the other side of the prep table, hand spread wide along the smooth edge, so close to the knife block on one side.

Will looks from one end of the kitchen--the emergency exit--to the other, the swinging double doors they came through, then looks back at Hannibal and manages a smile. "I look forward to eating a real meal from you."

\--

 _Portland has its fair share of French restaurants, but nothing quite like newcomer_ Mon Coeur, _established on the east side of the river by European transplant Gerard Closter. A tall, sharply dressed Englishman, Closter would stand out among the business-casual hipsters of the Pearl district, but despite this he and his co-owner, Walter Gardner, declined to be photographed for this spread._

\--

A typical weekday: Will puts on a comfy, chevron-patterned sweater in the morning and works on the restaurant’s affairs while Hannibal scouts for ingredients. Marketing. Negotiation. Partnerships. Will’s always been able to get into people’s heads, whether business owners or criminals, but this is better, he tells himself. No one is shooting at him, or drilling into his head, or trying to carve off his face.

He enjoys the back-and-forth emails from the graphic designer about the restaurant logo. He likes walking down 12th to meet the owners of the hand-crafted paper shop who will make all the menus for them. He tells himself, over and over, how much he wants this dull, normal reality to stretch on into infinity, where the only time he has to feel blood on his face is right before he wakes up from a nightmare and Hannibal is still awake, reading.

\--

_Watching Closter cook up Friday night’s prix fixe menu is like watching a surgeon perform magic: he holds the knives like a scalpel, carving impossibly fine cuts, and when you blink it all turns into the most luscious spread your carnivorous heart has ever seen._

_Sorry, vegetarians. There’s an impressive ratatouille on the menu, and the vegetables are just as exquisitely prepared as the steak or the duck, but you’re missing out._

\--

One night before going to bed, Will finds a stack of business cards on the corner of Hannibal’s desk. “What’s this?” he asks, shuffling through them.

“People who we shall never cross paths with again,” Hannibal answers, not looking up from where he scratches tomorrow’s menu in a notebook.

Will sets the pile of cards back on the desk, all the edges neatly aligned. “Unless it’s the dinner table?” he deadpans.

Hannibal smiles. “You know me so well, Will, it is almost like looking in a mirror.”

The statement is easy enough to shrug off as he sleeps that night, though he does think: does he look at Hannibal with that same hollow-eyed hunger when he thinks Hannibal can’t see him?

\--

 _The signature dishes on the menu of_ Mon Coeur _are, by far, the various game meat dishes: Civet de Sanglier and Boudin Noir Aux Pommes among them, both among the staff’s favorites here at Portland Monthly. Closter keeps his vendors a closely guarded secret, but he assures us they’re not more than 15 miles in any direction from Mississippi Avenue._

_\--_

One night Hannibal returns from work, late, carrying two reusable grocery bags (“PORTLAND FARMER’S MARKET”) close to his chest. Will looks up from the kitchen table and the email he’s been writing to one of their spice suppliers, thanking them for a generous sample of saffron. Sweat beads at Hannibal’s temples; his cheeks are flushed; his sleeves are rolled up. Normally, Hannibal returns tired from the restaurant, but not _labored_ , not as if he ran a marathon.

“There’s something we need to pick up,” Hannibal says as he sets the grocery bags down. Will stands and makes his way towards the bags, and as he does Hannibal pulls away from the counter, showing blood spots on the front of his shirt. Will stops, stares, and Hannibal pauses, too.

“Ah, yes.” Hannibal touches the splotches, maybe to check if they’re still wet. “I was rushing.”

Will snorts. “Rushing?”He steps up to the counter now and peers into the bags: Ziploc’d bundles of fresh, bloody meat. He swallows hard. “Where’s the rest?”

“New Seasons.” The local upscale grocery store.

Will sucks in a breath. “ _Hannibal_ —” In the back of his mind, he bets: it’s the cheese dealer, the one with the curled moustache.

“No time to explain, Will,” Hannibal says as he strips off his button-up shirt, discarding it over one of the barstools. “The meat will only keep for so long.” And he heads out again.

Will stares after his back, lets out a sigh, and grabs his keys off the counter, jogging out after him. It's something he expects, just like he expects dogs to howl and snakes to bite, but at least he doesn't see the act, and Hannibal has something to do.

_\--_

Mon Coeur _is open four days a week, Thursday through Sunday, 6pm to 10pm. Reservations are available, but with this restaurant now hitting its stride, you’re in for a two-month wait list!_

\--

An inspector for the city visits them near the one-year anniversary of the restaurant opening. His ignorant haughtiness reminds Will of Chilton, and he watches the unfortunate man write his own death when they get to the meat freezer. “Where is this sourced from?” he asks, picking up a shrink-wrapped, frozen shank and turning it over in a fruitless endeavour to find the label.

“It’s locally sourced,” Hannibal says, his hands in his pockets and his face a perfect mask of indifference as the inspector picks up and sets down packages at random, disturbing the careful organization of categories Hannibal had maintained up until then. Organ meat mixed with shanks mixed with shoulders; even Will feels a tick at his temple.

“Sourced from where?”

“Forests.”

The inspector levels an unimpressed look at Hannibal. “Mister Closter, without a label of origin, or even of _inspection_ , I can’t let you serve this sort of mystery meat to patrons.”

“I can assure you Mister Lin that—“

“This isn’t up for discussion. I’ll give you three days to get your act together, or else I’ll post the fail. And no opening until it’s resolved.”

Hannibal looks at the man, then nods. “Of course.”

“Other than that,” the inspector looks around as he tucks his Field Notes back into his jacket, “everything looks fine. Three days, Mister Closter.” He walks towards the double doors that lead into the restaurant proper.

For a single, long beat Will thinks that the man will make it out alive, each step on the tile a tenuous reassurance that sanity will prevail and they can _stay_ , this excursion into the Northwest hasn’t just been a pine-scented dream—

He blinks, and sees the man slump down against the doors with a chef’s knife jammed through his neck. Hannibal stands over his body, muscles still taut but not rushed, breathing still calm, even, and purposeful.

Hannibal looks over his shoulder at Will, watches his hand clutch at the edge of the prep table, then meets his gaze—shrugs. Just _shrugs_.

Better him than me, the thought flashes across Will's mind, and perhaps Hannibal is also thinking that: better this man than Will.

Will rolls up his sleeves, then starts pulling out plates, pots and pans, refusing to look at Hannibal even as the man moves to prep the other counters behind him.

“I’ve heard Seattle is a nice town,” Hannibal says. “Lots of new tastes.”

“We’ll find out, won’t we,” Will says, not a question.

 


End file.
